The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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"No! Not really? Thought that was only a boy-and-girl affair.... Aha!
the nigger music again! Let's find a seat, Dare."

Saxophone, trombone, piccolo, snare-drum and other barbaric
instruments opened with a brazen defiance of music, and a vibrant
assurance of quick, raw, strong sounds. Lane himself felt the stirring
effect upon his nerves. He had difficulty in keeping still. From the
lines of chairs along the walls and from doors and alcoves rushed the
gay-colored throng to leap, to close, to step, to rock and sway, until
the floor was full of a moving mass of life.

The first half-dozen couples Lane studied all danced more or less as
Helen and Swann had, that day in Helen's studio. Then, by way of a
remarkable contrast, there passed two young people who danced
decently. Lane descried his sister Lorna in the throng, and when she
and her partner came round in the giddy circle, Lane saw that she
wiggled and toddled like the others. Lane, as she passed him, caught a
glance of her eyes, flashing, reproachful, furious, directed at some
one across her partner's shoulder. Lane followed that glance and saw
Swann. Apparently he did not notice Lorna, and was absorbed in the
dance with his own partner, Helen Wrapp. This byplay further excited
Lane's curiosity. On the whole, it was an ungraceful, violent mob,
almost totally lacking in restraint, whirling, kicking, swaying,
clasping, instinctively physical, crude, vulgar and wild. Down the
line of chairs from his position, Lane saw the chaperones of the Prom,
no doubt mothers of some of these girls. Lane wondered at them with
sincere and persistent amaze. If they were respectable, and had even
a slight degree of intelligence, how could they look on at this dance
with complacence? Perhaps after all the young people were not wholly
to blame for an abnormal expression of instinctive action.

That dance had its several encores and finally ended.

Margaret and Holt made their way up to Lane and Blair. The girl was
now radiant. It took no second glance for Lane to see how matters
stood with her at that moment.

"Say, beat it, you two," suddenly spoke up Blair. "There comes Swann.
He's looking for you. Chase yourselves, now, Marg--Holt. Leave that
slacker to _us_!"

Margaret gave a start, a gasp. She looked hard at her brother. Blair
wore a cool smile, underneath which there was sterner hidden meaning.
Then Margaret looked at Lane with slow, deep blush, making her really
beautiful.

"Margie, we're for you two, strong," said Lane, with a smile. "Go hide
from Swann."

"But I--I came with him," she faltered.

"Then let him find you--in other words, let him _get_ you.... 'All's
fair in love and war.'"

Lane had his reward in the sweet amaze and confusion of her face, as
she turned away. Holt rushed her off amid the straggling couples.

"Dare, you're a wiz," declared Blair. "Margie's strong for Holt--I'm
glad. If we could only put Swann out of the running."

"It's a cinch," returned Lane, with sudden heat.

"Pard, you don't know my mother. If she has picked out Swann for
Margie--all I've got to say is--good night!"

"Even if we prove Swann----"

"No matter what we prove," interrupted Blair. "No matter what, so long
as he's out of jail. My mother is money mad. She'd sell Margie to the
devil himself for gold, position--the means to queen it over these
other mothers of girls."

"Blair, you're--you're a little off your nut, aren't you?"

"Not on your life. That talk four years ago might have been
irrational. But now--not on your life.... The world has come to an
end.... Oh, Lord, look who's coming! Lane, did you ever in your life
see such a peach as that?"

Bessy Bell had appeared, coming toward them with a callow youth near
her own age. Her dress was some soft, pale blue material that was
neither gaudy nor fantastical. But it was far from modest. Lane had to
echo Blair's eulogy of this young specimen of the new America. She
simply verified and stabilized the assertion that physically the newer
generations of girls were markedly more beautiful than those of any
generation before.

Bessy either forgot to introduce her escort or did not care to. She
nodded a dismissal to him, spoke sweetly to Blair, and then took the
empty chair next to Lane.

"You're having a rotten time," she said, leaning close to him. She
seemed all fragrance and airy grace and impelling life.

Lane had to smile. "How do you know?"

"I can tell by your face. Now aren't you?"

"Well, to be honest, Miss Bessy"

"For tripe's sake, don't be so formal," she interrupted. "Call me
Bessy."

"Oh, very well, Bessy. There's no use to lie to you. I'm not very
happy at what I see here."

"What's the matter with it--with us?" she queried, quickly.
"Everybody's doing it."

"That is no excuse. Besides, that's not so. Everybody is not--not----"

"Well, not what?"

"Not doing it, whatever you meant by that," returned Lane, with a
laugh.

"Tell me straight out what _you_ think of us," she shot at Lane, with
a purple flash of her eyes.

She irritated Lane. Stirred him somehow, yet she seemed wholesome,
full of quick response. She was daring, sophisticated, provocative.
Therefore Lane retorted in brief, blunt speech what he thought of the
majority of the girls present.

Bessy Bell did not look insulted. She did not blush. She did not show
shame. Her eyes darkened. Her rosy mouth lost something of its soft
curves.

"Daren Lane, we're not all rotten," she said.

"I did not say or imply you _all_ were," he replied.

She gazed up at him thoughtfully, earnestly, with an unconscious frank
interest, curiosity, and reverence.

"You strike me funny," she mused. "I never met a soldier like you."

"Bessy, how many soldiers have you met who have come back from
France?"

"Not many, only Blair and you, and Captain Thesel, though I really
didn't meet him. He came up to me at the armory and spoke to me. And
to-night he cut in on Roy's dance. Roy was sore."

"Three. Well, that's not many," replied Lane. "Not enough to get a
line on two million, is it?"

"Captain Thesel is just like all the other fellows.... But you're not
a bit like them."

"Is that a compliment or otherwise?"

"I'll say it's a compliment," she replied, with arch eyes on his.

"Thank you."

"Well, you don't deserve it.... You promised to make a date with me.
Why haven't you?"

"Why child, I--I don't know what to say," returned Lane, utterly
disconcerted. Yet he liked this amazing girl. "I suppose I forgot. But
I've been ill, for one reason."

"I'm sorry," she said, giving his arm a squeeze. "I heard you were
badly hurt. Won't you tell me about your--your hurts?"

"Some day, if opportunity affords. I can't here, that's certain."

"Opportunity! What do you want? Haven't I handed myself out on a
silver platter?"

Lane could find no ready retort for this query. He gazed at her,
marveling at the apparently measureless distance between her exquisite
physical beauty and the spiritual beauty that should have been
harmonious with it. Still he felt baffled by this young girl. She
seemed to resemble Lorna, yet was different in a way he could not
grasp. Lorna had coarsened in fibre. This girl was fine, despite her
coarse speech. She did not repel.

"Mr. Lane, will you dance with me?" she asked, almost wistfully. She
liked him, and was not ashamed of it. But she seemed pondering over
what to make of him--how far to go.

"Bessy, I dare not exert myself to that extent," he replied, gently.
"You forget I am a disabled soldier."

"Forget that? Not a chance," she flashed. "But I hoped you might dance
with me once--just a little."

"No. I might keel over."

She shivered and her eyes dilated. "You mean it as a joke. But it's no
joke.... I read about your comrade--that poor Red Payson!" ... Then
both devil of humor and woman of fire shone in her glance. "Daren, if
you _did_ keel over--you'd die in my arms--not on the floor!"

Then another partner came up to claim her. As the orchestra blurted
forth and Bessy leaned to the dancer's clasp she shouted audaciously
at Lane: "Don't forget that silver platter!"

Lane turned to Blair to find that worthy shaking his handsome head.

"Did you hear what she said?" asked Lane, close to Blair's ear.

"Every word," replied Blair. "Some kid!... She's like the girl in the
motion-pictures. She comes along. She meets the fellow. She looks at
him--she says 'good day'--then _Wham_, into his arms.... My God!...
Lane, is that kid good or bad?"

"Good!" exclaimed Lane, instantly.

"Bah!"

"Good--still," returned Lane. "But alas! She is brazen, unconscious of
it. But she's no fool, that kid. Lorna is an absolute silly
bull-headed fool. I wish Bessy Bell was my sister--or I mean that
Lorna was like her."

"Here comes Swann without Margie. Looks sore as a pup. The----"

"Shut up, Blair. I want to listen to this jazz."

Lane shut his eyes during the next number and listened without the
disconcerting spectacle in his sight. He put all the intensity of
which he was capable into his attention. His knowledge of music was
not extensive, but on the other hand it was enough to enable him to
analyze this jazz. Neither music nor ragtime, it seemed utterly
barbarian in character. It appealed only to primitive, physical,
sensual instincts. It could not be danced to sanely and gracefully.
When he opened his eyes again, to see once more the disorder of
dancers in spirit and action, he seemed to have his analysis
absolutely verified.

These dances were short, the encores very brief, and the intermissions
long. Perhaps the dancers needed to get their breath and rearrange
their apparel.

After this number, Lane left Blair talking to friends, and made his
way across the hall to where he espied Lorna. She did not see him. She
looked ashamed, hurt, almost sullen. Her young friend, Harry, was
bending over talking earnestly. Lane caught the words: "Lorna dear,
that Swann's only stringing you--rushing you on the sly. He won't
dance with you _here_--not while he's with that swell crowd."

"It's a lie," burst out Lorna. She was almost in tears.

Lane took her arm, making her start.

"Well, kids, you're having some time, aren't you," he said,
cheerfully.

"Sure--are," gulped Harry.

Lorna repressed her grief, but not her sullen resentment.

Lane pretended not to notice anything unusual, and after a few casual
remarks and queries he left them. Strolling from place to place,
mingling with the gay groups, in the more secluded alcoves and
recesses where couples appeared, oblivious to eyes, in the check room
where a sign read: "check your corsets," out in the wide landing where
the stairway came up, Lane passed, missing little that might have been
seen or heard. He did not mind that two of the chaperones stared at
him in supercilious curiosity, as if speculating on a possible _faux
pas_ of his at this dance. Both boys and girls he had met since his
return to Middleville, and some he had known before, encountered him
face to face, and cut him dead. He heard sarcastic remarks. He was an
outsider, a "dead one," a "has been" and a "lemon." But Margaret was
gracious to him, and Flossie Dickerson made no bones of her regard.
Dorothy, he was relieved and glad to see, was not present.

Lane had no particular object in mind. He just wanted to rub elbows
with this throng of young people. This was the joy of life he had
imagined he had missed while in France. How much vain longing! He had
missed nothing. He had boundlessly gained.

Out on this floor a railing ran round the curve of the stairway. Girls
were sitting on it, smoking cigarettes, and kicking their slipper-shod
feet. Their partners were lounging close. Lane passed by, and walking
to a window in the shadow he stood there. Presently one of the boys
threw away his cigarette and said: "Come on, Ironsides. I gotta dance.
You're a rotten dancer, but I love you."

They ran back into the hall. The young fellow who was left indolently
attempted to kiss his partner, who blew smoke in his face. Then at a
louder blast of jazz they bounced away. The next moment a third couple
appeared, probably from another door down the hall. They did not
observe Lane. The girl was slim, dainty, gorgeously arrayed, and her
keen, fair face bore traces of paint wet by perspiration. Her
companion was Captain Vane Thesel, in citizen's garb, well-built,
ruddy-faced, with tiny curled moustache.

"Hurry, kid," he said, breathlessly, as he pulled at her. "We'll run
down and take a spin."

"Spiffy! But let's wait till after the next," she replied. "It's
Harold's and I came with him."

"Tell him it was up to him to find you."

"But he might get wise to a car ride."

"He'd do the same. Come on," returned Thesel, who all the time was
leading her down the stairway step by step.

They disappeared. From the open window Lane saw them go down the
street and get into a car and ride away. He glanced at his watch,
muttering. "This is a new stunt for dances. I just wonder." He
watched, broodingly and sombrely. It was not his sister, but it might
just as well have been. Two dances and a long intermission ended
before Lane saw the big auto return. He watched the couple get out,
and hurry up, to disappear at the entrance. Then Lane changed his
position, and stood directly at the head of the stairway under the
light. He had no interest in Captain Vane Thesel. He just wanted to
get a close look at the girl.

Presently he heard steps, heavy and light, and a man's deep voice, a
girl's low thrill of laughter. They turned the curve in the stairway
and did not see Lane until they had mounted to the top.

With cool steady gaze Lane studied the girl. Her clear eyes met his.
If there was anything unmistakable in Lane's look at her, it was not
from any deception on his part. He tried to look into her soul. Her
smile--a strange indolent little smile, remnant of excitement--faded
from her face. She stared, and she put an instinctive hand up to her
somewhat dishevelled hair. Then she passed on with her companion.

"Of all the nerve!" she exclaimed. "Who's that soldier boob?"

Lane could not catch the low reply. He lingered there a while longer,
and then returned to the hall, much surprised to find it so dark he
could scarcely distinguish the dancers. The lights had been lowered.
If the dance had been violent and strange before this procedure, it
was now a riot. In the semi-darkness the dancers cut loose. The paper
strings had been loosened and had fallen down to become tangled with
the flying feet and legs. Confetti swarmed like dark snowdrops in the
hot air. Lane actually smelled the heat of bodies--a strangely
stirring and yet noxious sensation. A rushing, murmuring, shrill
sound--voices, laughter, cries, and the sliding of feet and brushing
of gowns--filled the hall--ominous to Lane's over-sensitive faculties,
swelling unnaturally, the expression of unrestrained physical abandon.
Lane walked along the edge of this circling, wrestling melee, down to
the corner where the orchestra held forth. They seemed actuated by the
same frenzy which possessed the dancers. The piccolo player lay on his
back on top of the piano, piping his shrill notes at the ceiling. And
Lane made sure this player was drunk. On the moment then the jazz came
to an end with a crash. The lights flashed up. The dancers clapped and
stamped their pleasure.

Lane wound his way back to Blair.

"I've had enough, Blair," he said. "I'm all in. Let's go."

"Right-o," replied Blair, with evident relief. He reached a hand to
Lane to raise himself, an action he rarely resorted to, and awkwardly
got his crutch in place. They started out, with Lane accommodating his
pace to his crippled comrade. Thus it happened that the two ran a
gauntlet with watching young people on each side, out to the open part
of the hall. There directly in front they encountered Captain Vane
Thesel, with Helen Wrapp on his arm. Her red hair, her green eyes, and
carmined lips, the white of her voluptuous neck and arms, united in a
singular effect of allurement that Lane felt with scorn and
melancholy.

Helen nodded to Blair and Lane, and evidently dragged at her escort's
arm to hold him from passing on.

"Look who's here! Daren, old boy--and Blair," she called, and she
held the officer back. The malice in her green glance did not escape
Lane, as he bowed to her. She gloried in that situation. Captain
Thesel had to face them.

It was Blair's hand that stiffened Lane. They halted, erect, like
statues, with eyes that failed to see Thesel. He did not exist for
them. With a flush of annoyance he spoke, and breaking from Helen,
passed on. A sudden silence in the groups nearby gave evidence that
the incident had been observed. Then whispers rose.

"Boys, aren't you dancing?" asked Helen, with a mocking sweetness.
"Let me teach you the new steps."

"Thanks, Helen," replied Lane, in sudden weariness. "But I couldn't go
it."

"Why did you come? To blow us up again? Lose your nerve?"

"Yes, I lost it to-night--and something more."

"Blair, you shouldn't have left one of your legs in France," she said,
turning to Blair. She had always hated Blair, a fact omnipresent now
in her green eyes.

Blair had left courtesy and endurance in France, as was evinced by the
way he bent closer to Helen, to speak low, with terrible passion.

"If I had it to do over again--I'd see _you_ and _your_ kind--your
dirt-cheap crowd of painted hussies where you belong--in the clutch of
the Huns!"

CHAPTER IX

Miss Amanda Hill, teacher in the Middleville High School, sat wearily
at her desk. She was tired, as tired as she had ever been on any day
of the fifteen long years in which she had wrestled with the problems
of school life. Her hair was iron gray and she bent a worn, sad,
severe face over a mass of notes before her.

At that moment she was laboring under a perplexing question that was
not by any means a new one. Only this time it had presented itself in
a less insidious manner than usual, leaving no loophole for charitable
imagination. Presently she looked up and rapped on her desk.

"These young ladies will remain after school is dismissed," she said,
in her authoritative voice: "Bessy Bell--Rose Clymer--Gail
Matthews--Helen Tremaine--Ruth Winthrop.... Also any other girls who
are honest enough to admit knowledge of the notes found in Rose
Clymer's desk."

The hush that fell over the schoolroom was broken by the gong in the
main hall, sounding throughout the building. Then followed the noise
of shutting books and closing desks, and the bustle and shuffling of
anticipated dismissal.

In a front seat sat a girl who did not arise with the others, and as
one by one several girls passed her desk with hurried step and
embarrassed snicker she looked at them with purple, blazing eyes.

Miss Hill attended to her usual task with the papers of the day's
lessons and the marking of the morrow's work before she glanced up at
the five girls she had detained. They sat in widely separated sections
of the room. Rose Clymer, pretty, fragile, curly-haired, occupied the
front seat of the end row. Her face had no color and her small mouth
was set in painful lines. Four seats across from her Bessy Bell leaned
on her desk, with defiant calmness, and traces of scorn still in her
expressive eyes. Gail Matthews looked frightened and Helen Tremaine
was crying. Ruth Winthrop bent forward with her face buried in her
arms.

"Girls," began Miss Hill, presently. "I know you regard me as a cross
old schoolteacher."

She had spoken impulsively, a rare thing with her, and occasioned in
this instance by the painful consciousness of how she was judged, when
she was really so kindly disposed toward the wayward girls.

"Girls, I've tried to get into close touch with you, to sympathize, to
be lenient; but somehow, I've failed," she went on. "Certainly I have
failed to stop this note-writing. And lately it has become--beyond me
to understand. Now won't you help me to get at the bottom of the
matter? Helen, it was you who told me these notes were in Rose's desk.
Have you any knowledge of more?"

"Ye--s--m," said Helen, raising her red face. "I've--I've one--I--was
afraid to g--give up."

"Bring it to me."

Helen rose and came forward with an expressive little fist and opening
it laid a crumpled paper upon Miss Hill's desk. As Helen returned to
her seat she met Bessy Bell's fiery glance and it seemed to wither
her.

The teacher smoothed out the paper and began to read. "Good Heavens!"
she breathed, in amaze and pain. Then she turned to Helen. "This verse
is in your handwriting."

"Yes'm--but I--I only copied it," responded the culprit.

"Who gave you the original?"

"Rose."

"Where did she get it?"

"I--I don't know--Miss Hill. Really and tru--truly I don't," faltered
Helen, beginning to cry again.

Gail and Ruth also disclaimed any knowledge of the verse, except that
it had been put into their hands by Rose. They had read it, copied it,
written notes about it and discussed it.

"You three girls may go home now," said Miss Hill, sadly.

The girls hastily filed out and passed the scornful Bessy Bell with
averted heads.

"Rose, can you explain the notes found in your possession?" asked the
teacher.

"Yes, Miss Hill. They were written to me by different boys and girls,"
replied Rose.

"Why do you seem to have all these writings addressed to you?"

"I didn't get any more than any other girl. But I wasn't afraid to
keep mine."

"Do you know where these verses came from, before Helen had them?"

"Yes, Miss Hill."

"Then you know who wrote them?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I won't tell," replied Rose, deliberately. She looked straight into
her teacher's eyes.

"You refuse when I've assured you I'll be lenient?" demanded Miss
Hill.

"I'm no tattletale." Rose's answer was sullen.

"Rose, I ask you again. A great deal depends on your answer. Will you
tell me?"

The girl's lip curled. Then she laughed in a way that made Miss Hill
think of her as older. But she kept silent.

"Rose, you're expelled until further notice." Miss Hill's voice
trembled with disappointment and anger. "You may go now."

Rose gathered up her books and went into the cloakroom. The door in
the outer hall opened and closed.

"Miss Hill, it wasn't fair!" exclaimed Bessy Bell, hotly. "It wasn't
fair. Rose is no worse than the other girls. She's not as bad, for she
isn't sly and deceitful. There were a dozen girls who lied when they
went out. Helen lied. Ruth lied. Gail lied. But Rose told the truth so
far as she went. And she wouldn't tell all because she wanted to
shield me."

"Why did she want to shield you?"

"Because I wrote the verses."

"You mean you copied them?"

"I composed them," Bessy replied coolly. Her blue eyes fearlessly met
Miss Hill's gaze.

"Bessy Bell!" ejaculated the teacher.

The girl stood before her desk and from the tip of her dainty boot to
the crown of her golden hair breathed forth a strange, wilful and
rebellious fire.

Miss Hill's lips framed to ask a certain question of Bessy, but she
refrained and substituted another.

"Bessy, how old are you?"

"Fifteen last April."

"Have you any intelligent idea of--do you know--Bessy, _how_ did you
write those verses?" asked Miss Hill, in bewilderment.

"I know a good deal and I've imagination," replied Bessy, candidly.

"That's evident," returned the teacher. "How long has this note-and
verse-writing been going on?"

"For a year, at least, among us."

"Then you caught the habit from girls gone higher up?"

"Certainly."

Bessy's trenchant brevity was not lost upon Miss Hill.

"We've always gotten along--you and I," said Miss Hill, feeling her
way with this strange girl.

"It's because you're kind and square, and I like you."

Something told the teacher she had never been paid a higher
compliment.

"Bessy, how much will you tell me?"

"Miss Hill, I'm in for it and I'll tell you everything, if only you
won't punish Rose," replied the girl, impulsively. "Rose's my best
friend. Her father's a mean, drunken brute. I'm afraid of what he'll
do if he finds out. Rose has a hard time."

"You say Rose is no more guilty than the other girls?"

"Rose Clymer never had an idea of her own. She's just sweet and
willing. I hate deceitful girls. Every one of them wrote notes to the
boys--the same kind of notes--and some of them tried to write poetry.
Most of them had a copy of the piece I wrote. They had great fun over
it--getting the boys to guess what girl wrote it. I've written a dozen
pieces before this and they've all had them."

"Well, that explains the verses.... Now I read in these notes about
meetings with the boys?"

"That refers to mornings before school, and after school, and evenings
when it's nice weather. And the literary society."

"You mean the Girl's Literary Guild, with rooms at the Atheneum?"

"Yes. But, Miss Hill, the literary part of it is bunk. We meet there
to dance. The boys bring the girls cigarettes. They smoke, and
sometimes the boys have something with them to drink."

"These--these girls--hardly in their teens--smoke and drink?" gasped
Miss Hill.

"I'll say they do," replied Bessy Bell.

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